


The Paralyzed Detective

by Kahvi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:30:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty kidnaps Sherlock so the two of them can have some personal time. Well, that's <i>one</i> of his reasons...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Paralyzed Detective

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to Roadstergal's [A Scandal in Marylebone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/192508). Readers are advised to read that excellent story first.

Waking up drugged and incapacitated in a strange location was not something with which I was unfamiliar; it comes with the job, rather. You wake in a panic; this is also to be expected, quite often struggling to speak, still disoriented and experiencing something of the fight or flight response that was robbed from you when the kidnapper - so very often it is a kidnapper - took action. This was, however, the first time that the word struggling to get out from my uncooperative lips and tongue was 'chapstick'.

(The second was not 'John', though it took considerable effort to prevent that; I knew that any slight indication of that name uttered would give valuable information to whomever had brought me here - and that must not happen, at any cost.)

As my eyes began to focus, I schooled myself to calm; although I was alone and unable to move much at all, there was no question where I was and who had brought me here. I was lying on a bed; expensively outfitted though rarely used; quite possibly bought specifically for this occasion. The sheets, however, _had_ been used. There was the faint impression of a musky smell; not bodily fluids, just that general scent that signifies 'human being'. There was, too, a hint of after shave; not familiar to me, but bordering on. Then, of course, there was the bed itself; jimmied - so much the right word - awkwardly onto the small balcony. Bringing me out here - high up, no doubt - where anyone could see us, _wanting_ to be seen, secure in the  
knowledge that no one would realize - it did not take the high, lilting voice drifting in from the door for me to know who was behind this.

"Hello, sexy," Moriarty drawled.

* * *

He stood in the doorway, watching me with dark, curious eyes. There was a glee to them that had not been present that day at the pool; a dreadful sort of anticipation. He was on his own turf now; entirely secure and comfortable. And he knew I knew. He smiled.

"Oh, don't bother trying to get up. You won't be able to for quite a while, not until you've seen my surprise, and we've had time for a nice little chat."

'Surprise'. Well, that wasn't going to be good. I had to focus; had to figure out what it was; what was going on, keep Moriarty from getting too much out of his advantage. Not much, but it was all I had. Shit. I had _nothing_. Why was that so clear to me? Why, come to that, did none of this thinking requite much effort at all?

Moriarty tilted his head, clearly following my train of thought. "Now Sherlock. You're not _thinking!_ All I want to restrain is that body you care so little about, not your brain." He pushed himself away from the door, taking a step towards the bed - me - watching with a cool, calculating gaze. "May I call you Sherlock? I feel like we've really bonded."

He moved closer, almost slithering towards the bed, sitting down just on the edge and turning his face towards me. Something shifted in his expression, subtly, and I felt my throat constrict. Oh Christ. I had guessed, but somehow it had never fully penetrated - not the best word, perhaps - he _wanted_ me. Surprised must have registered on my face, because the moment his eyes met mine, his eyebrows rose, and for just a second, he was open; exposed - _terrified_. Then, as though it had been nothing, he giggled, leaning back and watching me, this time with nothing but indulgent haughtiness, but it had been enough.

I had my in. I knew his weakness.

* * *

There were several boxes. He had placed them, one by one, on the edge of the bed, and was now in the process of carefully opening them with the air of a child on Christmas morning. Each item, once unveiled, was presented to me with enthusiasm, then put carefully in a pile by my feet, where I could easily seen them.

The first was a knife, which struck me as surprisingly dull. Noting this, Moriarty raised his eyebrow, as if to say 'just wait 'til you see what I'm going to do with it'. The blade, when he laid it down again, grazed the sole of my left foot. It was unexpectedly cool to the touch. Or perhaps that was some side effect of the drugs; I still had not figured out what it was that he had used.

"And you won't," he mumbled, unpacking the second object, which turned out to be a whip - well, he did have a flair for the dramatic. "It's a special concoction of my own; you have rather a high tolerance," he grinned, winking, "and I wouldn't want you to wake up too soon." He ran the whip through his hands, nearly caressing the handle. "You'd miss all the fun, that way." He frowned, turning the whip over in his hands. "Needs a little something."

I knew what he was going for before he moved, but I could not react; my brain screaming at my paralyzed muscles as Moriarty picked up the knife and grabbed my hand.

"Don't look at me like that," he said, in an almost soothing tone, "I'm only doing this to help." Quickly, he pressed the blade into the tip of my index finger. They do say that the pain of an infected tooth is slightly worse than having the tip of your finger sliced open, but I've always had excellent teeth. The pain was... indescribable.

Working quickly, Moriarty produced a cloth, catching most of the blood, then a compress, bandaging my finger with the ease of experience. He held the finger close, and for a moment, it almost touched his lips. I let my eyes dwell on them, just long enough, and noted how his breathing quickened. Then, the moment gone, he licked his lips, and began the work of coating the whip in my blood.

"Fake blood never looks real," he mumbled, leaning into his work. "Certainly not to a doctor."

* * *

The last box remained unopened, which could not bode well. Moriarty had disappeared into the apartment with his assortment of toys - there were things in there I'd rather not dwell on - and I had time to think.

It was not, on the whole, a terribly pleasant experience.

He was planning to lure John here, that much was evident, and the fact that Moriarty _probably_ wasn't going to kill him, at least not right away, was not much of a consolation. There was always the chance that John wouldn't be able to follow the lead - it would not be an obvious one; that would be too, well, obvious - but knowing John, I didn't hold out much hope for that. No, he would come, guns blazing, regardless of firearms, and he would be very lucky indeed if he got away with just life threatening injury. The box was resting close to my shin. If I could move my leg, even just a little, I could knock it off the bed and it would probably open. Even if that were a remote possibility, it was a terrible idea in _so_ many ways. I knew Moriarty did not want to kill me, and so the box would not contain anything that could do so by accident, but despite the man's bizarre infatuation with me, it would not do to make him angry.

I was considering the merits of various courses of action when a sound, or rather the lack thereof, made me pause. For the last three or four minutes, the quiet clatter of Moriarty rummaging about had echoed through the door; I had been aware of them without paying more than minimal attention. Now, there was a pause, as glaring and obvious as the throbbing wound on my finger. Taking care not to still my breathing - virtually the only thing over which I had complete control - so as not to give away my having noticed it, I concentrated on trying to hear what was _not_ there.

 _Oh._ He was _definitely_ trying to hide something. Now and then, there would come a tapping or dull thud or soft chink, but it was too mechanical; too calculated. He had finished setting up whatever little tableaux he was planning, and now... he was faking still being at it. He was close; the sounds were closer than they had been, earlier. As time wore on, they grew more erratic, and I began to wonder if I had been wrong; if it was all getting to me and giving me ideas, but I never have been the type. I see - and hear - only what is actually _there_. After a few minutes, the sounds stilled completely, and I exhaled in frustration; I could not begin to imagine...

Moriarty stepped out of the door, and it was written in every pore on his flushed face, every wrinkle around the fly of his perfectly tailored trousers; he had just masturbated. I looked into his eyes, and he flinched, reaching for the final box.

His fingers did not shake has he opened it to reveal a sleek, black baton.

* * *

"I know what you're thinking," Moriarty said, tracing a line up the inseam of my trousers with the baton - American style, police issue - watching the way the fabric creased in its wake. "But I'm not gay. It isn't about that." He gave a tap to my inner thigh - not painful, but with enough force to draw my legs apart, just a little. "You know how it is." He looked up, unreadable now; wearing, once again, the mask of the Master Criminal. "People like you and me - we're _different_. You can't tell me you've ever been satisfied with the touch of anyone else, hm?"

I looked up, feigning interest. It was vital that I played this game to the full - it might not be my only chance, but it was certainly my best one.

He smiled. "I see you know what I mean. I know you've tried. I know quite a bit about you, you know." The baton reached the top of my leg, and I braced myself, but just as it reached my groin, he withdrew it. "You might say I'm a bit of a fan."

He held the baton in both hands now, running his fingers over the polished surface. I let my eyes dwell on it, then turn to him. I found I could move my head just a little more, and was unable to adequately mask my surprise, because he threw his head back and laughed.

"No, my dear. Oh heavens; _no_. I'm not about to set you free. Not yet, anyway. It'll take hours before you're even strong enough to sit up, much less walk out of here. No," he leaned closer, voice almost a purr, "you're staying right where you are, for now."

My mouth was a little open, and I could move my lips now, even if I could produce no sound from them. Now _there_ was something I could use; I closed them, very slowly, making sure to meet his eyes.

"You're a little tease, aren't you?" His breath came quicker now; that much was certain, and it came to me that he must have masturbated, in part, to keep from getting an erection this close to me. I would have noticed, and that would have altered the balance of power, just enough for it to be uncomfortable for the little bastard. I narrowed my eyes, hoping I could mold contempt successfully into lust. By the look of him, it seemed I had succeeded. "Later," he muttered, one hand hovering above my thigh. "My surprise isn't even here yet."

When my eyes widened, he leaned down closer still, whispering into my ear.

"But you've figured out what that is already, haven't you?" His breath was hot and rapid; I could smell him, he smelled like the sheets. "Oh, we're going to have _so_ much fun!" Almost like an afterthought, he reached out his tongue, sticking it into the soft cartilage; a quick, heady swipe.

I took it as a minor victory.

* * *

"You know, I'm beginning to understand the appeal of having someone to talk to."

As I was able to now, I lifted my head slightly to get a better look. Moriarty had placed himself on the other side of the balcony door, where he would be unseen by anyone coming through it. The implication was not lost on me. For the last twenty minutes, he had been chattering almost non-stop, explaining the finer points of his plan to lure John here. I had thought John's accounts of my exploits on his blog were overly embellished and hyperbolic; clearly, I owed the man an apology. _This_ was what hyperbole sounded like; dull and droning and forever ongoing to boot. But no; I could not think of John; it would show, _he_ would know, and the game would be up. I had to keep this up. Keep it going.

"This is what it could be like, for me and you. Someone... _real_ to talk to; not just some trained little _monkey!_ " He spat the word, leaning back against the railing, and just as I was starting to worry about getting him onto some other subject, something caught his attention, and he looked up. "Oh!"

He pointed skywards. I, of course, had no trouble looking in that particular direction, but my angle was different; all I could make out was a quickly moving shadow, running, seeming to favor its... _oh_.

The grin on Moriarty's face seemed wide enough to split it in half. "Our guest has arrived! Well, I say guest..."

I could feel the blood rushing from my face, desperately hoping that it would go unnoticed. My mind raced; could I send a message, somehow? Warn him? If he was on the roof, that must mean it was the only way to reach us; he would be climbing down - not this side, it stood to reason; I could see the facade from here, and there was no way anyone could scale that. So, the other side, and then...

"Sherlock?"

I tried to turn; I tried to yell, every other instinct lost; _John_. The thought buried everything; the certainty of him here. I had to warn him; had do _something_ , but there was his face in the doorway, and it was already too late...

* * *

I need not have worried. As John collapsed against the wall, injured, but much less so than I had anticipated; he would require little more than rest and painkillers, I wondered why I had.

His eyes turned to mine, and I struggled to lift my head. By the time he was at my side, I could speak, but I said nothing.

* * *

I said nothing.

I said nothing as he looked me over, looking far worse himself. Nothing as the drugs slowly wore off, and I could move and talk and breathe more freely. Nothing, as he held me as we went down the elevator and into the taxi, and certainly nothing as he stared at me, looking for all the world as if I were the most important thing in his universe.

I couldn't be.

"Maybe we can try again later?" Nervousness radiated from the man; nervousness and quite a few other things I didn't want to think about.

"Maybe not such a good idea," I said, quietly.

Really, when he passed out again, it came a something of a relief.


End file.
